Absolution
by Arienrod
Summary: Sometimes you have to just fall. Sydney/Sark.
1. Apologies & Insight

"Vaughn." An apology hung in the air between them, a pause pregnant with tension. But the words didn't follow. Disgust masked by pity contorted familiar features and he was gone. Sydney didn't know why she persisted. Why she kept going to him, even now. What's a little masochism between ex-lovers? Isn't that what friends are for?  
Now the disgust was hers, disgust with herself, with him, but especially with the little tramp he'd married. Not that she knew her. Oh no, Vaughn would never let his worlds collide like that, past with present, his here and now with his once and was. To him, Sydney Bristow was no more than a phantom, and anyone who said otherwise was an unwelcome intrusion. So why did she insist? Why did she welcome the burn? Sydney closed her eyes to block out his face. In the darkness, she could still feel him with a ubiquity unnatural. Greedily, her thoughts followed his every move and in the past two months the emotions had gone past love to obsession. She didn't just want him. She needed him.  
"Jesus fucking Christ." The expletive exploded softly from her lips, escaping before she could take note of her surroundings, where she was, who she was with. Too late she realized she was not alone. The soft clucking behind her and to the left startled her, guilt tingeing skin.  
"Well, Agent Vaughn is many things, though I was not aware he was our savior."  
Arrogance so dry it practically scorched, but Sydney lacked a clever retort. He had caught her in a moment of weakness, a moment of shame. Interestingly enough, she had never heard sarcasm wrapped around a British accent before.  
  
"He's not. What do you want Sark? Why'd they let you out of your cage?"  
"They needed my expertise." He was now in front of her, dark blue eyes colored by an unidentifiable emotion. Irritation and curiosity did battle and curiosity won out. At least Sark wasn't running from her as if she carried the plague. Instead he stood, immobile, arms linked by metal cuffs behind his back. The gray jumpsuit customary to prisoners did nothing to hide his lanky frame. Broad shoulders curved to lean arms, all compact muscle held taunt, as if in anticipation.  
Anticipation of what?  
"And now?"  
"Now they allow me a moment of leisure. Of course, if you're concerned for your safety, you can see I still have my entourage." A slight head gesture indicated the two suited agents, guns cocked at the ready, standing a respectable distance away to allow Sydney a moment of intimacy, if not privacy.  
"You could never hurt me Sark."  
"Not like he can hurt you." He finished the thought effortlessly. His words merely reflected what was already evident on her own expressive features. Funny how even now, in the presence of a dangerous criminal and longtime adversary, Sydney's thoughts flitted back to him. Funny how things had changed, estranged from all that was familiar, intimate and consorting with the enemy. Where was the line and when exactly did she cross it? Funny how right and wrong, good and evil blurred so easily. Was this how her mother felt?  
It was a disturbing thought. Sydney willed herself to move, to walk away, to lift her foot and set it down again, but she remained rooted. Her mother, the infamous Irina Derevko. She too had been drawn to this blond assassin, cold as ice. Is that how it worked? Once you've been burned too much, all you can handle is ice?  
Sark continued to watch her and she returned the favor. He was so detached, so devoid of emotion. Now she began to realize why her father hated him so much. Why Vaughn hated him so much. Two years with the CIA and he had yet to reveal anything of importance. Rather he tantalized them with bits and pieces, half-truths hidden in riddles layered with deception. It must be maddening, to hold at their fingertips the means to rid the world of evil and not be able to use it. But what did it mean to her? What was evil when the face of good brings only grief?  
  
"Welcome the pain Sydney." He spoke so matter-of-factly and so softly it took her a minute to recognize that he had spoken at all. Whether he was trying to be philosophical or was merely playing with her, Syd was too far gone to care. So instead she waited for him to fill the silence with an explanation.  
Cocking one eyebrow, he took her willingness to stay as an invitation to go on. "Pain is the only thing the reminds us we're alive." He continued to look down at her with the same unidentifiable expression. Somehow Sydney knew it wasn't pity. She had seen enough pity in the past weeks to identify it. Odd how the most insightful words could come from a known terrorist. Odd how it was no longer pain that she was feeling. Rather, whatever it was, was driving her to throw Sark back on the desk and straddle him in one fluid motion.  
  
Odd.  
  
Sydney closed the distance between them defiantly. One of the agents in the corner coughed, unsure of where this may lead. Pity stayed his hand, thankfully, for Sydney was tired of playing by their rules. After all, where had their rules ever gotten her? A back alley in Hong Kong, her one shot at happiness carried off by the ghost of tomorrow, and her very existence buried in thousands of had beens and weres? No, no, it was her turn. Sark remained still, unflinching and unsympathetic. He for one would never grant her pity. Raising her arm slowly, Sydney allowed fingertips to graze the curve of his cheek. The texture of smooth skin brought a tingle of electricity as well as the cool, dry heat of contact. Moving from cheek to lips, Sydney felt a rush of desire in her own knees, finally identifying Sark's unidentifiable expression.  
  
Lust.  
  
Without thought, Sydney replaced fingertips with lips. The kiss was at once brutal and soft. It felt like he was crushing her from the inside out. How he managed to convey such firmness without moving a single muscle was beyond her. And in that moment Sydney made one last realization, seeing into the soul of her mother. They were one and the same. For when you've fallen this far, your only path seeks absolution in sin. 


	2. Impulses & Addiction

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short! More is on the way! I originally intended Chapter 1: Absolution, to be a stand alone story, but since I had so much fun with it, and there was such a positive response, I've decided to continue!  
  
"Well, does that make things better for you, Agent Bristow?" He did not flinch, did not move, did not react in any way. Had he even felt it? Only a telltale flickering in the pools of ice blue belied an insurmountable control placed over turbulence. The inquiry he posed was closer to the mark than she wanted, and it was not the one she expected, the one she asked, why did you do it? She ignored his questions and volleyed back one of her own. "How did you know I was in pain?"  
He laughed. It was a harsh sound, guttural, without amusement, but without anger. "You wear your scars in your eyes. Besides, it would take a fool not to read your emotions."  
A fool. Simply a fool, no pointing fingers, Vaughn's name left unsaid. Unsaid but still thought. When did he acquire such power over her even in his absence? Sark read her weakness like a book, her emotions as open to him as if she'd laid bare her soul. Her scars where many and multi- hued.  
"Does kissing the man he hates make it better? Does it heal you inside?"  
He was asking questions she didn't like. He was looking for answers she didn't have.  
  
Again she ignored his words, this time concentrating instead at the errant curl of blond hair which had managed to fight its way loose and now flopped ever so rakishly over his left eye. Impulsively, for it seemed the day for impulses, Sydney took the smooth textured hair (like spun gold rolled in dirt) and tucked it behind his ear. Her fingers lingered, the feel of his skin had become an addiction. She couldn't get enough of the sensation, like a rough rose petal, but more importantly she couldn't get enough of his reaction. His blue eyes darkened, clouded, his eyes narrowed, he felt it. She was triumphant once more.  
The warning came in a flash of metal too late.  
  
He had broken the cuffs which so precariously kept her safe and his right hand grasped hers, links of splintered metal held in his left. The strength of his hands were unnerving, and he did nothing to calm her flash of surprise. "You didn't answer my question."  
It was her turn to breathe difficultly, but she did not strain against him. Not that she could, he held her like a vise, with one hand pressing hers to his neck, drawing her body ever closer.  
"Agent Bristow?" Spoken in concern, the guards had become bold again.  
But they were not the ones to break the contact.  
"Sydney?" Spoken in alarm bordering rage. Vaughn had returned.  
  
The dark-haired man slid easily between them, pushing Sark against a desk. Immediately his hands went up in subservience, but his eyes remained dark. A guard took over the task of recaging Sark, but not before one last glance was shot her way. Vaughn turned his attentions to her, the glance lost to him.  
"Are you all right?" There. There was some of the old concern, pity- free.  
Like he had the right to be concerned over her. After all, he had long buried Sydney Bristow. Her pain, now, then or ever was not within his interest. So why did he ask?  
"I'm fine."  
"No, Sydney, you aren't fine. You're shaking all over. What did that pig say to you?" He hadn't seen it, hadn't been present for the kiss which redefined her moral compass. But still. Why did he ask?  
"He didn't say anything."  
He did not hear her. "I'll report this to Kendall, I'll make sure he never leaves that eight by ten cell ever again. I told them not to let him out. Sark hasn't given us a bit of valuable information in the past two years. All he does is give us half-truths wrapped up in riddles. But I'll get Jack to back me up, if he so much as goes near you again-"  
"Vaughn." She broke in, finally. "He wasn't hurting me." She left the rest unspoken, like you're hurting me. 


	3. Paradigm Shift

"Sydney. I'm only concerned about your safety. You are a valuable agent to this agency." Right. Because his concern could only be professional at best. The need to qualify his own emotions hinted at a guard he had put up. A minute in the past he had shown such passion rekindled. And now it was gone. As if he saw his own ice, he continued. "And you, you are.a good friend of mine."  
  
Friend. He gave her such pleasure with such pain. When would it be her turn to give?  
"Sark is a tiger that's been declawed. I can handle him. He's nothing now." She spoke with nerve she could not possibly feel. His intriguing departure would not be easily forgotten. And where had that odd impulse to slide her body over his come from? Those eyes, a million shades of blue, iridescent. No, Mr. Sark would not be so easily banished into thin air.  
"You underestimate him." It was an argument they so oft repeated, before. Before. Tempering the present to bring back the past, his face softened, a memory of the old Vaughn, caring for the old Sydney. Memories could feel so real.  
"You underestimate me."  
"Sydney, I could never underestimate you." Was that the hint of a smile? A smile wistful at what might have been? Perhaps memories held the power to transform the present. And now she longed to recall more, show him that she was not a phantom, that the past could be easily willed into a visage of the future.  
  
"Vaughn." Could fingers that lingered on the devil touch an angel, albeit a recalcitrant angel? Once he had been her guardian angel. Did he still hold the title? Or would her hands pass through, proving herself insubstantial?  
  
He jerked back.  
She had not even touched him. That she needed torture to force herself to feel was no longer in dispute.  
  
Does it make things better - Sark asked the right question after all. Does it make things any better? No. Did it heal her? No. But it numbed the pain. Nothing short of a time machine would heal her. And yet her newly gained insights alluded to a change of heart. Paradigm shift absolute.perhaps. The rules and regulations which gave her direction, gave her purpose, disappeared. There was nothing left to follow. No one left, but the one woman she was finally beginning to understand.  
  
She couldn't bear to see his retreating back once more. Couldn't stand to hear his footsteps echoing into the hallway, his shoulders hunched in defeat, his head down in pity, his eyes averted. He had become so good at leaving.  
It is your turn - her mother's voice whispered. It is your turn to walk away. So many times she had trusted that voice. So began another seduction. Because it was her turn to walk away.  
And so she did. She put one foot in front of the other, and continued to do so until she knew Vaughn could no longer see her. Ironic that she end up here. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.  
  
"Leave us." The guards stared.  
"We have to leave the monitors on."  
"Doesn't matter."  
  
Nothing mattered. Anymore. It wouldn't be the first time she was filmed. Not that she planned on doing that with Sark, in a federal detention center of all places. Still, there was a poetry to his face which even Vaughn could not fake. Such clean lines, an openness which did not reach his eyes. Face of an angel - her mother's voice again whispered. Even Lucifer retained his beauty after his fall.  
Kissing him had been like falling into deep water, with no hope of resurfacing. An indistinct pressure threatened to capsize every inch of her body, but still she had floated. And now, merely standing next to him, seeing him, Sydney felt as if she were falling all over again.  
  
Like Alice down the rabbit hole.  
  
Where would she land? 


	4. Faith & Honor

Ordinary Superman  
  
"Close your eyes."  
Sydney found herself obeying before he even finished the sentence. Why did she follow his directions so eagerly? Like a lamb to the slaughter. She felt, rather than heard, Sark approach her. Years spent as an assassin honed such abilities.Her line of thought was abruptly ended by Sark's touch. And by his will all rationality fled her. God, what was happening? His fingers were cold. And she enjoyed it.  
"No." It came out as a question more than a definitive.  
"No?" Amusement tinted a honeyed voice. Lips curled into a boyish smile. But those eyes. Those eyes were neither boyish nor the least bit amused. What she saw there, what she felt in his gaze. It frightened her. Moreover, it seduced her. Now that said something. It said something about Sydney, to be seduced by fear. A gaze like his was powerful, dangerous, made more so by her own weakness. No matter, because she could barely hold his gaze for more than a moment.  
And still he touched her.  
  
He didn't treat her like Vaughn did. Had. Not even back in the day, when passion, not pity, defined her relationship with Vaughn. He didn't look at her like Vaughn did either. Vaughn, Vaughn had worshipped her once, watched her every move with adoration and desire. Their relationship was hardly as staid as Sark made it feel. There had been excitement with Vaughn, once and perhaps still. Somehow this was different. This wasn't excitement. Sark didn't drink her in like she was a delicate flower to be admired, far from it. His eyes followed her every move in an almost cruel way, possessing her, defining her, bending her to his will. Even blind she knew he did not take his eyes off her. Would not take his eyes off her.  
  
If Vaughn had been love, Sark was something entirely new. Sark was frightening. If by frightening she meant exhilarating of course. Only, she was startled again by her own willingness to find comfort in the present situation. Comfort? When was Sark's presence anything but a threat, much less comfort?  
Oh, but what a boyish charm those lips, those eyes could contort themselves into, while still belying below the surface a deadly control. Was it a projection? Was he creating an illusion for her to feed upon? Or was that other world, that other Sydeny, that weak Sydney the illusion?  
An interesting puzzle.  
  
Then again, she wasn't the only one in the room suffering from an identity crisis. Who exactly was Mr. Sark? At shallow depths, the sarcastic twisting smirk showed a boy who was not a boy, one quick to laughter, wearing his emotions writ across his face. Lingering beneath was a stillness, like a glacier, untouched by external influence. Here lay the assassin, the man who could kill as easily as he could breath. Glimpses of that coldness betrayed him, exposing the outer illusion to be incomplete. And deeper still? That Sark she felt during the briefest of moments, hinted by their shared kiss, vaguely present in his very touch. No single layer could define him.  
  
She opened her eyes, no surprise registering at him standing directly in front of her. He dropped his hand, but the intimacy of contact had not been broken. Marble. Marble and gold, marble and gold and ice, he was made of marble and gold and ice.and something else. He was a mystery she could not fathom, would not fathom, could not hope to fathom. Each move was a surprise for her but no matter what she did, how she anticipated, he was three steps ahead. Hell, he was miles ahead and still he mocked her. There was truly naught she could do but remain trapped, entranced. Along came a spider weaving his web.  
  
So she fell back on the only thing she knew for sure.  
  
"What the hell do you want Sark?" She spoke fast to fool herself. She moved backwards quickly to get away from him, to get away from herself. It was a question with no answer.  
  
And then she fled.  
  
Leaving Sark to smile, bemused by this interesting turn of events. "Well now, Agent Bristow, this was unexpected."  
But he spoke to his own reflection, mirrored by planes of glass.  
  
What the hell was wrong with her? There, the same question. A myriad of answers. In what perverse alternate reality did Sark become the Lex Luthor to her Lois Lane? And when exactly had Sydney begun to find characters like Lex Luthor sympathetic? When your ordinary Superman runs off with the babysitter, her mother's voice told her. Stop it. This was not the time to be hearing voices. Especially dead, psychotic, ex-KGB voices. So who's voice would you rather hear instead? Your own rationalizations? Or Vaughn, who refuses to understand? This was the first sign of madness, hearing imaginary voices that is.  
  
...  
  
It was about faith. It was about faith and it was about honor. Her father had called Vaughn a boy who was never good enough for her. So had he ever had faith? Had he ever had honor? Had he ever truly loved her if that love could be supplanted?  
He said he didn't regret moving on with his life. It didn't make it any easier. And now she stood, soul bared and anger driven, in front of this wisp of a blond that looked like she would blow ever if Sydney so much as sneezed. Yet somehow, that was neither met nor matter for her to ponder. Sydney's anger and indignation had a new focus, another motive.  
"What do you mean they demand Sark?" 


End file.
